The barrel of my Glock rests just below Dante Moretti's jaw.
"Nice to see you too, Valenti," he murmurs. Calm. Unshaken. The same irritating cool he always carried like a tailored suit.
"You're taller than I remember," I say, my voice low. "Less smug."
His smile is faint. "You're not."
He doesn't flinch. Not even with my finger on the trigger. He just watches me with those sharp eyes, like he's assessing damage before it happens. It pisses me off.
I take him in, too.
Broad shoulders. A scar just beneath his right ear that wasn't there three years ago. He's older – rougher – but somehow more dangerous for it. More…handsome, which pisses me off more than it should.
"I thought you were dead," he says finally.
"Disappointed?"
"Surprised."
"Not as surprised as you'll be when your blood hits the marble."
He tilts his head slightly, letting the gun follow. "You're still dramatic," he muses.
"And you're still breathing."
I press the muzzle harder into his skin, just enough to remind him that this isn't a social visit. "Where is my brother?"
His jaw tightens. Not a twitch. Not even a blink. He's always been good at keeping secrets behind his teeth. I never cared before, but this secret involves my brother. So, yes, I give a shit.
"I don't have him."
"You expect me to believe that?" I scoff.
"Put the gun down," he says. "I'll show you what they sent me."
"Am I supposed to trust you?"
"No," he says, and finally looks me in the eyes. "I expect you to want the truth more than you want my blood."
My hand doesn't lower, but my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
He knows.
He knows I got the message.
"You looked inside, didn't you?" he asks.
I say nothing. But my silence is its own answer.
"I didn't send it," he tells me.
"But someone used your name."
He nods once. "Someone wants you here. With me. They used my name to make sure you'd come."
He leans in a fraction, like he can smell the suspicion bleeding off me.
"And now that you're here…" he starts. "What exactly do you plan to do?"
I don't answer, because I don't know.
I should shoot him. Walk out. Burn this whole place down.
But I can't walk away from this.
I hear the heel of a boot scrape the floor behind me. I spin fast, dagger flashing from my sleeve just in time to meet the fist coming from behind.
One of his men. Idiot.
Steel bites flesh. He grunts, stumbles. I drop low, blade angled for the kill.
Before I can strike again, a hand closes around my wrist.
Moretti.
Not rough. Not tender either. Controlled.
"You still don't hesitate," he murmurs.
"Let go of me."
"You're not in the shadows anymore, Amara. This is my world now."
"I was born in it," I snap. "I just survived long enough to know when someone's lying."
"Then you should already know that I'm not your enemy."
I straighten, blade still dripping. "You were never on my side, either."
"Things have changed."
"So have I."
"I can see that."
We stare at each other—me with fury, him with something unreadable. Memory? Regret?
"I didn't come back to reminisce," I say. "I came for answers."
"And I'll give them to you," he says. "But not with a weapon in your hand."
He nods toward the bar at the back of the room.
There, on the counter, sits a small black velvet box. Unassuming. Too clean.
"I didn't open it," he says slowly. "Not my message."
I don't move. I don't trust anything in this place; not the box, not his men, and definitely not him.
But my feet are already inching forward.
"Why keep it?" I ask him.
"Because someone wanted to rattle me. And they failed."
I glance at him. "You sure about that?"
His gaze doesn't leave me. "I was more rattled when I heard your name again."
It's the first honest thing he's said tonight. And I hate that it lands.
I step toward the bar, keeping my dagger tight in one hand, gun in the other. My breath shortens as I approach the box. It's just a box, but it might as well be a detonator. My fingers tremble when I touch the lid.
Inside might be nothing. A trap. A warning.
Or proof that Lorenzo is alive.
I lift the lid, but I don't react. Not visibly. But something inside me snaps.
It's a photo.
Different from the box I received. Mine didn't include a photo. Just a name, and a different message.
'Ask Moretti where your brother is.'
This one is of my brother…older, thinner, with a split lip and a hollow look in his eyes. He's sitting in a dark room, arms tied behind him. The background is blurred. Deliberate.
Taped across the bottom:
'Guess who's still breathing?'
No blood. No threats. Just those four words. And Dante's name printed in neat, capital letters along the envelops it came in.
I stare at it for a long time. I don't feel the breath leave my lungs until the photo starts to tremble between my fingers.
I turn back to Moretti.
"You still want to shoot me?" he asks softly.
No smirk this time. No arrogance. Just…waiting.
I slide the photo back into the box, close it gently, and finally holster the Glock.
I run my thumb over the hilt of the blade. "Start talking, Moretti. If I hear one lie, you'll be choking on your own teeth."